“If not tomorrow, then four weeks gives me enough time to work out my schedule.” Ignoring the frown turning his full lips down, I reach for my stool. “You ready to get started?”
He answers by setting his glasses on the counter and reaching for the bottom of his T-shirt. He pulls his shirt off in the same efficient yet sensual way as usual, then straddles the chair. I ignore the “Holy crap, Batman!” comment ringing through my head again as I stare at his muscled back, then apply another transfer. After that I get to work filling in the tribal work inside the treble clef. I’m 99 percent artist and only one percent female, and am totally focused on the process. I keep the question of why he’d want me to go to his show so badly in the far recesses of my mind.
Everything’s quiet, smooth, and lovely until the endorphins kick in and he starts talking. “I’m curious, did your ex call?”
Yes. He did. And had the audacity to warn me away from Justin. This was thanks to Jazz, who had heard that Justin was known for moving through his band’s groupies like a fast-moving summer thunderstorm. I was not amused by a warning from cheating Trevor. “Yeah, but ugh. Let’s talk about something else.”
“Art?”
I pause and lean back, checking out my work. I’m almost half done with the interior. Unconsciously, I switch the topic to him. “How about music? What do you like to sing best?”
“Mmm…Never thought about it.”
“You have some time now.”
His fingers tap on the armrest he’s leaning over. “Probably the songs that get the crowd wild. It’s more about the energy between the crowd and me than the enjoyment of singing the song. Their energy gives me a natural high that no amount of alcohol or drug can beat. It’s like their excitement, their enthusiasm flows into me. It puts me on top of the world, but it humbles me too.”
I’d been trying to make small talk with the question about singing, but his explanation deepens the conversation and gives me a glimpse beyond his playboy persona. I find it intriguing that the crowd’s enthusiasm humbles him. I can’t help asking, “What songs get the crowd going the most?”
“Different songs produce different kinds of momentum. Something rocking and fast like ‘Remedy’ gets them excited and moving with the music. With that song, an almost tangible energy comes off the crowd.”
“Remedy?”
“It’s a heavier song, almost metal. By Seether. You’ve never heard it?” He glances over his shoulder.
I wipe at the blood and ink on his skin. “Probably. It’s not ringing a bell though.”
He shakes his head slightly and I imagine the expression of incredulity on his face. “While that song is loud and rocking other songs like ‘Twenty-One Guns’ by Green Day…You’ve heard of that, right?”
“Yes,” I say wryly. “I’m not totally out of the music sphere.”
“Well, dramatic songs like that bring a different energy, a sort of passion to the crowd. I’ve even seen tears. Those songs are like riding an emotional wave. It can be draining, a roller coaster of emotion worth the drain.”
The needle hovers over his skin as I take in his words. “Why?”
He draws in a deep breath, and luckily I wasn’t inking him because his muscles ripple from the acute rise of his shoulders. “Not sure if I can put it into words correctly.…” His fingers drum again on the vinyl armrest. “It’s like we’re connected for the length of the song. Their memories, their regrets, their hopes crash into me, and all of it becomes part of the song. For a few minutes we’re on the same wavelength of emotion, connected by compassion, sometimes sadness. Though strangers, we understand each other in that moment.”
His explanation astounds me. I’d like to rest my forehead on his skin and take in this moment—part of me can’t believe he has opened up and let me see beyond his playboy persona. I’d never expect such depth from him. He’s cocky and an obvious womanizer, yet his heartfelt explanation makes him more attractive because it’s a perfect description of how I consider art. In its highest form, art ignites universal emotions that transcend the differences among people.
Instead of giving in to the urge and pressing my cheek on his back, I simply say, “I think you explained it rather well.”
He shrugs but says, “I’m not sure I did but thanks.” A soft rock song fills the silence. “So how long have you been into van Gogh?”
I wipe at a bead of ink on his skin. “Since I was about twelve.”
“How does a twelve year old girl get into van Gogh?”
“We had to do a two-page paper in art. I picked his name out of a hat. The first time I saw Starry Night it was love at first sight. Then I read about him and read his letters to his brother, and I don’t know…He seemed so lonely and sincere yet troubled. My little twelve-year-old heart went out to him.”
“Huh. You must have been one mature girl. At that age, I was drooling over Beyoncé and Gwen Stefani. Sincerity didn’t enter into the drool.”
“There were Tiger Beat boys pinned to my wall too. Not just van Gogh prints. I wasn’t a total nerd.”
“You sound sweet not nerdy.”
Me sweet? I’m not a raging beezy or anything, but sweet? There’s only a small circle that gets sweetness from me. “Don’t get any wrong ideas about me. Remember, I’m sticking a needle in you.”
His laugh is rich and deep.
“You might want to stretch while I change needles,” I say, wishing his laugh didn’t make me want to open up to him.
He pushes out of the chair, and I adjust my rear post to modify the supply of ink and then attach a large mag needle for the shading and coloring. The changes to my machine keep me from watching him stalk around the room and in front of the mirrors.
Finally, he sits all that skin down and I get back to work. We talk about art and music as I shade the tattoo, then fill in the tiniest amount of red for some extra definition. Once again, he’s easy to talk to. It’s nice. But not as nice as his kiss, which shouldn’t be in my thoughts while I’m working—or at all.
I let him look at the finished tat before I put the bandage on. While he checks it out in the mirror, deep dimples form as he smiles, just like the last time. He studies the defined treble clef filled with intricate tribal work wrapped around the detailed microphone.
“It’s amazing.” His eyes meet my reflection in the glass. “You’re beyond talented.”
My murmured thanks receive a quick hug. A moment later he slides away, brushing his slight five-o’clock shadow with my cheek and leaving me frozen as he plops into the chair. I stiffen from his embrace and try not to recall the sensation of his warm, lovely skin. I slowly reach for some goo, then apply it in a dreamlike state to his back. I haven’t been to dreamland in years. Nor have I felt fuzzy and warm, which are the only words that describe how I feel from his hug.
Not good.
After applying the bandage, I shake my head to clear it. Head in the clouds leads to idiotic things. Like fake dates.
Once he’s dressed—I peeked very little by keeping myself busy cleaning up—he hands me two tickets. “You need to come see your work. It’ll be center stage tonight.”
My fingers reach for the tickets, and warning bells ring in my head at the touch of his hand. I snatch the tickets and clasp them to my thigh. “That will be a first.”
He snags his sunglasses off the counter, and gives me an uncompromising stare with those clear green eyes. “I’ll be looking for you in the crowd.” Then he and his inked body are gone, leaving only the scent of his dark, sexy cologne.
About two minutes later, I’m still standing next to my tray like an idiot and debating if I really should go to his show when Todd walks in. His pierced mouth curls into a smirk. “Knowing you tatted him, I get why Justin had the look.” The look refers to the tell-all smile a customer has when seeing their finished tattoo. “But why do you have the look, Al?” he asks, then grins mischievously at me.